


here comes a feeling you thought you'd forgotten

by starkidpatronus



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Dancing, Dancing Lessons, M/M, POV Third Person Limited, Pining, Season 3, Unresolved Emotional Tension, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Will-they-won't-they, idk some kind of tension, light cursing, that sort of thing, you get the gist
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-11
Updated: 2016-07-11
Packaged: 2018-07-22 21:52:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7455211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starkidpatronus/pseuds/starkidpatronus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>"oh no, you had it, but oh no, you lost it,</em>
  <br/>
  <em>looking back, you shouldn't have fought it."</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Sherlock teaches John how to waltz. John has two realizations.</p>
            </blockquote>





	here comes a feeling you thought you'd forgotten

**Author's Note:**

> Hello there!  
> This was meant to be a drabble, but turned into more, as my work usually does. Takes place sometime before the wedding.  
> The title of this piece and the quote in the summary both come from "Horchata" by Vampire Weekend.  
> Not beta-read or Brit-picked; feel free to point out mistakes!

                The furniture has been pushed aside, and a clear space has been created where there once were chairs in 221B Baker Street. Two glasses of water sit on an end-table. The stage is set.

                “All right,” Sherlock says, clapping his hands together and stepping into the center of the space. “Dancing is an art form. And like all art forms, one must start with the basics.” He holds his hands out, right higher than the left, ready for John to step into his frame.

                John looks around the flat, mouth open and hand scratching the back of his head. “Um…”

                “What?” Sherlock asks, looking expectantly at John. His arms do not move.

                “Well…I was just thinking…should we maybe, um...” John trails off, rubbing at his chin. He then points at the windows. “Shouldn’t we draw the drapes? People…might talk.”

                “People do little else,” Sherlock points out evenly, and John can’t tell if he means it as a call-back to that showdown at the pool all those years ago. Back when things were so much different than they are now. “But yes, you’re probably right.” He rushes over to the windows, quickly covering them all with the curtains. After that’s done, he turns back to John. “Now.” He holds his hands out again. “Shall we begin?”

                John glances around once more, then sighs and steps into Sherlock’s stance, placing his left hand in Sherlock’s right and his right hand on Sherlock’s waist. He doesn’t miss the way Sherlock inhales sharply at that, and bites back a sigh himself. Still not comfortable with physical intimacy—at least, not with John.

                “All right.” Sherlock takes a deep breath, and for a moment, it looks like he’s preparing himself for battle. “The waltz is traditionally done in three-count time.”

                “The waltz?” John boggles at that. “Since when are we dancing a waltz?”

                “Since I began writing a waltz tune for the first dance,” Sherlock answers simply, as if it’s no big deal. “Now, as I was saying—”

                “Hang on, now!” John stops him. “How am I supposed to learn how to dance a bloody _waltz_ in six weeks?”

                “Easily.”

                “Easily?” John looks disbelievingly at his dance partner.

                “Yes,” Sherlock confirms, nodding.

                “How do ya’ reckon that?”

                “It’s the easiest pair dance to learn,” Sherlock explains. He tilts his head in that way that gives off a feeling of both condescension and genuine surprise. “Didn’t you know that?”

                John gapes at Sherlock like a fish, opening his mouth three times before any sound comes out. “No!” he finally exclaims. “ _Clearly_ , I did _not_ know that!”

                “My apologies.” Sherlock looks down at John with the faintest of smiles playing across his lips, and oh, John hates him, he _really_ hates him. (He really doesn’t.) “As I was saying,” Sherlock resumes, “the waltz is danced in three-count time. So, you count ‘one-two-three, one-two-three’ with each series of steps you do.”

                “Well what are the steps?”

                “I was getting to that.”

                “Right.” John nods, looking down at their feet, which should look far too close together. (Oddly, they don’t. They look right like this.) “Sorry.”

                “It’s all right.” Something in Sherlock’s tone makes John look up, but seeing the expression on his face makes him look right back down. There’s something in Sherlock’s eye that’s almost…tender, even loving. John knows that he’s projecting wildly, but even the illusion is too much for him to handle right now.

                “So, the steps.”

                “Yes, the steps,” Sherlock agrees on a sigh. “We mirror each other. So, I’ll be doing the opposite of whatever you do. Start with your feet together. Like that, yes. First, you step forward with your left foot.” John does so, watching their feet, and Sherlock steps backwards with his right. “Good. Next, step diagonally with your right.” John does as he’s told; Sherlock steps diagonally with his left. “Nicely done. Bring your left foot to your right foot, so that they’re together again. Good. Step back with your right foot. Yes, precisely. Step diagonally with your left foot, so that your feet are about shoulder-width apart. Well-done. And bring your right foot to your left foot, so that they’re together again. Perfect. That’s the whole box. It takes two counts of three to complete a box.”

                “Okay.” John nods, still looking at his feet. “You were right; not too difficult.”

                “Shall we try again?” Sherlock suggests. “I’ll count.”

                “Let’s.”

                And so, they practice, Sherlock’s soft, “one-two-three, one-two-three,” providing the melody of their steps.

                “You’re doing quite well,” Sherlock informs him.

                “Right,” John scoffs.

                “No, really, you are!”

                “Sherlock, I’ve stepped on your feet no less than five times!”

                “Well, aside from that.”

                “Oh, aside from that.” John throws his head back laughing. Sherlock laughs softly, _intimately_ , shaking his head, and John feels his heart swell in a way it hasn’t done in two years. He feels an urge to tip their heads together in the quiet privacy and soft lighting of the flat. He doesn’t do so, of course.

                It takes a while, but eventually, John has nearly mastered the box. He only just touches the tips of Sherlock’s feet with his own, before realizing his mistakes and correcting them. He’s feeling rather confident about it all.

                That is, until Sherlock says, “Now, time to add turns.”

                John nearly runs out of the flat, but Sherlock gets a grab on his arm, saying, “Oh, no you don’t.”

                “But, really, I’ve got an appointment—”

                “It’s your day off, that’s why we scheduled this for today.”

                “But—”

                “Get over here.”

                “ _Ugh_.” But he’s smiling as Sherlock tugs him back, and Sherlock’s smiling too, and, wow, all right, calm down, John.

                But the thing is, Sherlock’s _really_ smiling, with _teeth_ , and John’s never really been able to handle such unbridled joy from Sherlock. And—Oh, John had thought, he’d been _sure_ that he wouldn’t be hit with this anymore, but of course he’d been a fool to think that. He swallows it down, though; he hadn’t lost that skill, thankfully.

                “Turns are easy,” Sherlock reassures John.

                “Really?”

                “Really,” Sherlock insists. “You just need to relax, and trust me.”

                John meets Sherlock’s gaze then, and finds that he cannot look away. Apparently, neither can Sherlock, whose mouth is slightly open. They stay like that longer than John could say, since time seems to stand still. All that exists is the blue-grey of Sherlock’s eyes, the feeling of their interwoven hands, and the faint tingling where John’s hand meets Sherlock’s waist.

                “So…do you?” Sherlock asks softly.

                “Do I what?” John’s mouth is too dry; he licks his lips and swallows.

                “Trust me,” Sherlock clarifies, eyes following the movement of John’s tongue. “Do you trust me?”

                “Yes,” John answers, too quickly. “Of course.”

                Sherlock nods. “Good.” His voice breaks on the word.

                There are so many things that John could say, that John _wants_ to say, but he doesn’t. (He never does.) For a moment, though, it feels like he says them all, and Sherlock hears him loud and clear.

                Then, Sherlock remembers why they’re doing this for the both of them, as he clears his throat and straightens his back. “Now, keep doing the box step,” he orders. “Turning will…come naturally.”

                “All right,” John consents, resuming his steps.

                Gently, Sherlock begins turning them in a different direction with every step. It starts out slowly, with John still looking at their feet and feeling hesitant. Gradually, though, it builds, until they’re practically _spinning_ around the room. John starts laughing in spite of himself, and Sherlock chuckles too, and it all feels safe and bright and warm.

                The light filters through the curtains softly, painting Sherlock’s hair a lighter shade than usual—Chestnut. The light also reflects itself in Sherlock’s eyes, causing them to sparkle in a way John’s not used to seeing. The flat feels like home. Well, it always has, but—right now, it feels like…the place one might start a life. Two lives, as one.

                But, of course, they’ve already done that. And it didn’t work.

                John has no idea how long they do this for, just spinning and laughing and holding onto one another. It could be twenty minutes, it could be twenty years; it doesn’t matter to John in the least. However, they do naturally slow down and eventually stop, momentum running out.

                They stand there, eyes and hands locked, and the rest of the world just sort of…freezes.

                John’s about to sigh and break away, pretending he isn’t what he’s feeling, like always. Because John thinks that’s where the lesson will end, but he’s wrong.

                “All right, now.” Sherlock’s voice is low, drawing John back in. And he’s looking at John from under his eyelashes. If it weren’t Sherlock, John would call his behavior flirtatious. “Dip me.”

                John does a double-take at _that_ demand. “I’m sorry, what?”

                “Dip me,” Sherlock repeats, like it’s no big deal.

                “Sherlock, I don’t—”

                “You’ll want to be able to dip your spouse at the reception, yes?”

                “Yes, of course, but—”

                “Then dip me!”

                “You’re taller than me!”

                “Mary’s taller than you!”

                “That’s—That’s different!”

                “How?”

                “Because—It just is, all right?”

                “John, I am not asking you to practice your vows on me,” Sherlock states, and John has no idea where _that_ came from. “This is not anything intimate, and anyways, the curtains are closed, as you requested, so we don’t run the risk of being seen by anyone. _There is no risk here_. It’s just so that you can practice the dance in-full, _which is why you’re here._ Now, if you would be so kind as to—Whoa! _”_

                In a fit of frustration, John steps firmly to his left and dips Sherlock harshly. It’s not at all elegant, and it leaves them both reeling, and in a compromising position that makes John _very_ glad that they drew the drapes.

                Because now, their faces are about two inches apart. Eyes wide. Breath short. And John’s fairly sure that this is _incredibly_ poor dance form, but he also can’t really think beyond the way he can feel Sherlock’s breath on his own lips. It feels like they’re in some sort of plane of their own existence.

                John needs to look away. John can’t look away.

                Sherlock swallows. John watches. “W-Well-done,” Sherlock breathes. Somehow, he sounds both incredibly far away and far too close, every syllable amplified. The rushing in John’s ears overpowers every other noise, but everything about Sherlock is impossibly sharp and defined. Each individual curl that John can feel where his hand is resting at the nape of Sherlock’s neck, each speck of his eyes, each tremor of his lips.

                “Thanks,” John breathes back. And—oh God, Sherlock was lying when he said there was no risk involved here, because _this_ is it, _this_ is the risk. John took it and now he’s reaping his reward, damn it, because he is in _serious_ danger of leaning forward and sabotaging his own engagement right now.

                Engagement. Yes, he’s engaged. Not to Sherlock. No, he’s not engaged to Sherlock. Why isn’t he engaged to Sherlock?

                And that’s the thought that sends him tumbling over the edge, makes him lean down closer to Sherlock. Sherlock doesn’t move away, doesn’t move at all, stays as still as a statue, while John comes closer and closer—

                “Sherlock!”

                Missus Hudson’s voice. Of course.

                Time resumes. John stands up quickly, bringing Sherlock up with him. There’s a confusing, worrying moment when they’re standing _far_ too close to each other, Sherlock looking down and John looking up and both their heads angled. But then John steps back. (John always steps back.) And they’re back to normal, a respectable distance between them.

                “Sherlock!” Missus Hudson is at the door now, knocking on it from the other side. John trudges over to it and opens it. “Oh, John, hello!” Missus Hudson says breezily. “Sherlock,” she says firmly, setting her gaze at the man now seated in his chair. “You have a client. She’s downstairs; she’s been waiting for twenty minutes.”

                Sherlock looks over at John, who does not attempt to look anywhere else. Sherlock shoots him a small smile, shakes his head slightly, and says, “Duty calls.”

                John sighs, smiling softly back. “Send her up,” he tells Missus Hudson.

                “Oh, are you—?” Missus Hudson looks between the two of them. “Are you two working together again then?”

                Sherlock looks to John, eyebrows raised. John’s gaze flits to Sherlock, then returns to Missus Hudson. “Yes,” he confirms. “Yes, we are.”

                “Oh, wonderful!” Missus Hudson claps her hands together. “You’re both so much better with each other than without.” She then seems to realize the implication of her words, for she backpedals with, “Oh, not to say—I just mean—You make a good team.” She nods resolutely, as if that settles it, and rushes downstairs, presumably to send the client up.

                And then, they’re alone again. Shit.

                John looks up, down, around the flat, _anywhere_ that isn’t at Sherlock. It doesn’t work; he can _feel_ Sherlock’s eyes boring into him, practically drilling a hole where they rest on John’s face. Finally, John gives in, turning to meet Sherlock’s gaze questioningly.

                Sherlock seems surprised by this move, and angles his head just so, as if expecting John to go first. John will _not_.

                Sherlock exhales slowly. “So,” he says, sitting back in his chair. “Do you agree?”

                “With what?”

                “With Missus Hudson,” Sherlock answers, picking up his violin and rosin. “That we make a good team.” Casually, he starts tending to his instrument.

                John huffs. “Right.” He rolls his eyes, then realizes that Sherlock is looking at him expectantly. And he’s not laughing.

                John feels strangely exposed, and horribly wrong-footed. “I, um,” he says, trying to think of how to answer in the most careful way possible. “Well—I, uh—I think—”

                “Yes-or-no, John,” Sherlock says tiredly, resuming his rosining.

                And that—Oh, that pisses John off just a _little_ too much, because this _prick_ thinks he can come back and make John feel flustered and out-of-place and a million other things, and so far, John’s been proving him _right_.

                Well, that’s about to change.

                John squares his shoulders, juts out his chin, and declares, “Yes. I do.”

                Sherlock looks sharply at John, brow wrinkled. He looks genuinely startled by John’s response—startled, but pleased. “Really?” he checks, sounding happily dismayed.

                “Yes.”

                Sherlock holds their gaze for a moment, and John can’t _breathe_. He can't read Sherlock’s expression, but he knows it’s the exact same way Sherlock looked at him the first time he told John to take his card and use it at the shop—like he’s a puzzle Sherlock can’t wait to figure out.

                “Mister Holmes?”

                John’s never been more grateful for the arrival of a client in his life.

                Sherlock sighs, stands up, and buttons his jacket. “Yes, hello.”

                The client, a woman about thirty-five years old with brown hair and a long coat, sits down timidly in the chair Sherlock gestures towards. She starts telling Sherlock about the case, and John sits down in his own chair robotically, still gathering his bearings.

                He closes his eyes for a moment, thinking over his own life, and draws two conclusions:

  1. He is not over Sherlock Holmes.
  2. He needs to be.



                Sherlock catches his eye and winks, smiling. John sits back in his chair, swallowing.

                God, does he ever need to be.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Please leave a comment; it's so helpful for my ginormous ego. <3  
> (Also, feel free to leave critiques; it's my first time posting a fic for this ship.)


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